


Runaway American Dream

by rivlee



Series: OT3 'verse [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:24:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how he starts to become Bucky again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaway American Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of Bucky's pov for _I Get By (With a Little Help)_ , though this stops before Bucky meets Sam (again) in that story. There is one mention of **suicidal thoughts** once Bucky enters the diner, so please proceed with caution. Title swiped from Bruce Springsteen.

After he pulled the man out of the water— _Steve, steve, STEVE_—the first thing he did was return to Pierce’s house. He stole a duffle bag and some clothes, burned his old uniform in the backyard, and drank the last of the milk as he watched the smoke rise into early morning sky. He raided the place for what cash and easily pawnable—yet not suspicious— valuables he could find. He made sure to deliberately clean the places he’d been, dropped bleach around the kitchen table to confuse the blood evidence, and inspected the rooms for traces of his hair. He left Pierce’s gun on the kitchen counter, made sure not to touch it with his bleach-stained hands, and blinked slowly down at the body in the foyer.

Pierce had a burner phone in the wheel well of a supposedly broken down car in his garage. He used it to call 911, reported a suspicious smell coming from the front door, and casually threw the paper left at the end of the driveway closer to the stoop. He crunched the phone into little pieces, and dropped each through the sewer grates he passed as he walked back to the nearest train station.

**************

“Sir? You need some help, sir?”

Young woman, dark skin, wide brown eyes, cap on her head, green camo gear with _Chang_ stitched on her chest in black lettering. Maybe five-feet-three-inches in those shoes. She favored her left side, and approached him with a hand held out. He could grab the gun on her belt and shoot her between the eyes before she even had the chance to react. 

He let her approach instead.

“Sir, I think we should take you inside. A storm’s about to start and you don’t want to be out here for the downpour. We have warm cots and food inside.”

He’d been on the streets for two weeks; found bathrooms in the numerous parks to wash his hair and body. He’d gotten his meals out of all the wasted food thrown into the trash, though he’d swiped a few apples from some open-air markets. 

He could use warmth for the night, even if it wouldn’t be safe. He could use some decent food too. 

He followed the woman—solider—Chang inside. It smelled like a schoolroom, old wood, and chalk, with a sign that proclaimed _We Take Care of Our Own_ hanging above a makeshift desk.

“Name?” Chang asked.

He hesitated for a moment.

“We can put down John if you don’t remember,” Chang said.

“It’s James,” he said. He cleared his throat, knew he needed to make his voice smoother to throw off suspicion. Pity bred curiosity. “My name’s James.”

He stayed a month

****

*********

There was a university library three blocks away from the shelter. They must’ve been used to dealing with homeless vets since no one ever questioned or followed him. He liked to spend his hours inside the quiet space and comfort of the book stacks. Not many people went up to the fifth floor, where the sociology, foreign language, and historical texts all seemed to be stored. Apparently the university associated with the library was more closely tied with science and medicine. He’d heard plenty of soft science jokes during his hours curled up in a plush lump called a _bean bag chair_ reading on the wars between 1945 and now.

There was a computer room up here, full of older model desktops. One of the students had called them fossils, and James had laughed to himself as he sat down at one and pulled up Google. He’d spent hours on Wikipedia at the shelter, filling in the blanks of general knowledge that didn’t concern weapon use, successful missions, and the location of his long-list of handlers. 

He searched _Steve Rogers_ at least once a day. There were pictures of him everywhere, old, new, in uniform, in jeans, on foot, on his bike, crouched down with children, and shaking the hand of a world leader. There were others that showed him out shopping, at the movies, at a community center leading a fitness exercise standing next to that man James had pulled out of the sky. 

He searched _Sam Wilson_ today. There were a few salacious rumors on gossip sites with brightly colored backgrounds and glittery text. Bucky clicked away fast, his eyes watering at the overload. 

He searched _Bucky Barnes_ next. He knew the library had a whole stack devoted to his life. He’d paged through the all the biographies and works devoted to the Howling Commandos. He’d read his sister’s memoir. There were whole classes devoted to his friendship with Steve and speculation on if it was something more than just lifelong friends and blood brothers. 

Today’s results brought nothing but the usual speculation if the rumors about the Winter Soldier’s identity were true, that if what had been leaked when Black Widow opened up S.H.I.E.L.D’s files to the world was valid. Was the Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes? If he was, where had he gone? Would the government drag the bay for his body? Should he be buried with honors again if a body was found to finally to rest in an empty grave?

James touched the long strands of his hair and searched _barber shops_.

****

**********

Samuel Wilson, former Air Force Pararescue Jumper. Reached rank of Staff Sergeant before leaving. Awarded two Purple Hearts, a Silver Star, and an Air Force Combat Action Medal. File full of reports praising strength of character, determination to complete missions, and ability to keep a level head in battle. Only started to show signs of compromised judgment upon the death of partner SSgt. Thomas Riley. Graduated at the top of his indoctrination class, second only to Riley. Gradated in the top ten of his college class. Certified counselor to keep up with proposed standards of the Department of Veteran Affair’s and Department of Defense.

One of four children. Mother a guidance counselor, father a minster. Eldest sister Selah Wilson-Burton, a human-rights lawyer. Selah, mother of three daughters: Aisha, Alia, and Alana. Sarah, second eldest sister and third eldest child following Samuel. Aspiring political journalist, currently a grocery store cashier while attending graduate school, and community volunteer. Simon, youngest child, college student at Howard University majoring in Civil Engineering. 

The siblings met at least once a week to watch the nieces compete in soccer matches. James could’ve taken them out one-by-one where they sat in the stands, but instead he watched them. Steve joined them often, carrying a cooler full of drinks for the kids. No one bothered Captain America in the stands, even though James had located twenty-three photographers in his last perimeter pass. 

He waited for the stands to cheer on a goal before slipping over to Wilson’s new car. He wrote down the driver’s license plate and gave a quick once over. Bullet resistant glass in all the windows; not too trusting of the general public then. He couldn’t really blame Wilson since he tore the steering wheel out of his last car; it was good to take extra precautions even if they were useless in the grander scheme of things. It was a sign that Wilson realized he’d stumbled into a subtle war, and was taking the steps to protect his own even while outwardly acting like nothing had changed. James nodded in approval before slipping into the crowd walking past the park and toward the closest Metro station.

****************

The Smithsonian exhibit showed James who Bucky was to the public face, to history, to anyone, when a camera was turned on him. He had a feeling he was the only one, other than Steve, who saw the lost boy in those eyes.

The world held Steve and Bucky up as the friendship and brotherhood to strive for in all things. They made it seem like the war brought them closer, when the bits and pieces shuffling around in James’ brain told him otherwise. It wasn’t Bucky from Brooklyn Steve pulled off that table, but then it wouldn’t have been Bucky from Brooklyn even if Steve had just joined him in a foxhole. He would’ve been changed regardless, but he never imagined it would be this much. No one could ever imagine such a future. 

Bucky still felt better on his tongue than James. Between one street and the next he made a decision. 

Bucky left the museum and walked, and walked, until he found the cathedral he’d visited while at the shelter. The scent was what drew him that first time. Smoke that reminded him of things that weren’t nightmares. Melting wax and the creak of wooden pews, and stations of the cross on the beams. This was a familiar thing, he felt down to whatever comprised his soul now. 

“James?” Father Patel asked. “It’s been awhile. You’ve cut your hair.”

“Good or bad?”

“You could go shorter,” Father Patel said. “If you want to Confess, I can take you before the scheduled start time.”

Bucky waved him off. “Just thought I’d think for a while.”

Father Patel nodded. “If you need me, or Him, we’re always here to listen.”

“I don’t think there’s enough prayer to save a soul like mine, Padre.”

Father Patel shook his head. “I think He would disagree with you, but faith isn’t always easy, despite what they like to say. Whether or not you believe, you’re still welcome here.”

Bucky laughed then. “According to some of your policies, I’m really not.”

Father Patel sat down beside him and looked Bucky square in the eye. “I follow the teachings of Father Mychal Judge. I suggest you look him up the next time you’re in the library.”

Bucky did. It gave him a spark of something he knew was once called hope.

****************

Bucky knew Steve and Wilson spent weekends looking for the Winter Soldier, neither thinking he would dare to stay in the area. Natasha Romanoff was the one who found him first. He was staying at a pay-by-the-week place, and he watched her slip into his room as he stood in the stairwell. If she wanted to kill him she would’ve already done it, rather than risk taking him on in his own nest.

“You could’ve brought food,” he said as he followed her inside.

She looked around his room. “I wouldn’t eat in a place like this.”

“It wouldn’t kill you,” he said.

“It might,” she said. “Or my dining companion could do the job.”

“He won’t,” Bucky said. “I want my deposit back when I leave.”

“Where’d you get the money?” she asked. 

“Pawned some stuff stolen from a man who won’t miss it.”

Her face gave away nothing as she watched him move around the room. “Two bodies washed up on the shore this morning. That your work?”

Bucky slowly blinked at her, doubting she would believe he could be that careless.

“I know you weren’t that obvious before, but this is the longest you’ve ever been out of cyro and away from your handlers,” she said. “You have to understand my caution. It wouldn’t be out of line to consider you’ve gone sloppy. Or freelanced.”

“Do you think it typical of me to be sloppy?”

“Sloppiness shows a certain emotional aspect, which you work has generally lacked, recent events excepted. However, I don’t think _you_ even know your typical anymore. How can a man have a baseline if he doesn’t even know who he is?”

Bucky didn’t feel in the mood for an interrogation tonight. His head was throbbing, part of the healing process he was sure, and his vision was starting to blur. He closed his eyes and pinched his brow. 

“I apologize for using you as a means to an end,” he said.

“I’m not here for your apologies, sincere or not,” she said.

“Then what are you here for?”

“I want to know why you’re watching Sam Wilson’s family. I want to know why you’re keeping Steve Rogers under surveillance and I want to know how you keep throwing enough breadcrumbs in the wrong places to keep them off your track.”

He didn’t expect honesty or the tiniest hint of anger in her tone. It was enough to make him open his eyes.

“I’m not here to harm either of them. I just want to know Steve is in the best possible hands,” he said.

“Do you even remember Steve?” she asked.

He did, and yet he didn’t. He didn’t know _this_ Steve, but he knew something. 

“I remember caring for him as if it was my only duty in the world. Do you know what it is to love someone so much you’d die for them over and over again? I don’t mean romantic fairy tale bullshit. I mean love so down to the core of your own being it becomes part of the things that define you.”

“I know a thing or two about it,” she said. Her gaze fell to her necklace for a split second before she looked at him again. “How can you remember any of it?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know the science behind it. Whatever they shot me up with back in the 40s is now working its way through my system unimpeded by brain wipes and cryogenics. It’s repairing the damage, I guess.”

“So you still don’t remember everything,” she said.

“Bare bones, basics, and essentials. The defining shit we just talked about? It’s an essential. The rest? You could say it comes back in waves. In dreams. Scent triggers a lot for me. It’s probably never going to be sorted out, and I know that.”

“Steve could help.”

“Or hinder,” he said. “I don’t want to just be someone else’s memory.” 

“You’re not just leaving the trail to give yourself time to hide,” she said.

“No,” Bucky said. “I’m not the only one who needs an objective, or something to focus on right now.”

“None of your files ever indicated you were this good at stealth strategic maneuvers.”

“I got really good at lying really fast,” he said. “I’m sure you can understand that.”

She nodded. “I’ll leave you to it for now. If he asks me where you are, I won’t lie to him. If you harm either one of them, I will come after you.”

“If he asks, tell him I still need time. If I harm him again, hell, depending on the circumstances? I just might let you.” 

He sat on his bed and waved to the door. “You can see yourself out.”

Romanoff gave him one last, long gaze. “The haircut’s better, but you should go shorter.”

“You been talking to my priest?”

****************

Bucky moved to a place out in Arlington. Never that hard to get a meal, close to a Metro stop, and easy to blend in with the people going in and out each day. He liked to sit in a park near one of the business centers, read his paper, and listen to the competing food trucks start verbal duels. Apparently France and England still hadn’t forgotten Agincourt.

Six months since the exposure of Hydra, and Bucky was settling into his own routine. He kept raggedy spiral notebooks where he wrote down what he remembered from each phase of his life. Some were good memories, others horrible, some were missions, and others were tiny things like the first time he tasted chocolate. He’d started to see a few of the shrinks who volunteered their time with the homeless shelters. He always went to the ones who had a history of working with vets. Some of them were there because they wanted to be there, others because it was part of their community service to get a DUI charge off their records. He never really bothered with those types. He didn’t want to speak to someone who saw their time as an obligation rather than a service they offered. 

The shrinks and Father Patel did they best they could, but without specifics Bucky knew the offered advice and treatments were all general coping mechanisms. He considered it a big step just talking about it. He read up on what was like for guys like him back in the 40s coming home. How everyone wanted to see them as war heroes without having to think about what they’d been through. He read up on Audie Murphy, watched a copy of his film at the library, and wondered again at the courage of small men with big hearts who refused to the let world beat them down. 

Still, he couldn’t exactly tell the person who asked him about his nightmares that he was born almost a century ago. Couldn’t tell him that he’d spent the better part of a lifetime being a weapon. Couldn’t tell them that yeah, he knew a thing or two about the powerful brotherhood exhibited by The Howling Commandos. Couldn’t tell them that he’d been broken before the Soviets, then S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Hydra, ever got hold of him. Couldn’t tell them that he’d thought about swallowing his gun long before the shrink’s grandparents were even born. 

One of the other vets, Ariana, younger than any war vet should be, told him to do one thing each day that felt familiar from before the war. It helped her, she had offered, and it might help him. 

He’d decided on reading the paper. He used to sell them on street corners with Steve, using Steve’s choir boy smile and Bucky’s loud voice to get as many customers as possible. He used them during the war to occupy downtime when they got ‘em from the USO. He used them in the years between for missions. Before cell phones and text messages, when they’d let Bucky out for long ops, they’d send additional information for his missions coded through the want-ads. He still checked them these days, just in case. 

Bucky folded the newspaper in half and took a moment to just savor the weight of it on his flesh hand. He’d always liked the feel of paper under his fingers, the smell of the ink and the stain it left on his hands. That stain used to remind him of something back on those long ops for Hydra, though he could never remember what. That hint of familiarity always made him smile before it made him scared; he remembered that because they let him keep fear and pain. He couldn’t lose focus on a mission. There were consequences for failure and too much at stake.

Now the smell of the ink brought Bucky back to an old drafty apartment. He could see the creaky stairs of an already crumbling building, and Steve’s skinny arms covered in graphite as he poured his soul onto paper and beauty came out with each stroke of a pencil. Bucky remembered thinking it was magic, telling Steve so, and the low, harsh laugh of disbelief Steve gave every time. 

He remembered washing up in the floor’s shared bathroom, laughing at himself in the cracked mirror hanging above the sink as he saw the long, skinny lines of ink or paint or graphite left by Steve’s fingers. 

Bucky shook his head and focused on the task at hand. It wasn’t good to drift into the haze while out in public. He looked closer at the want-ads and there, in the tiny corner of the personals, he found something. 

The smile on his face didn’t feel natural, even though it was genuine. 

“So, Steve, I see Romanoff said something.”

**************

Bucky allowed himself to meet with Steve after half a month of correspondence through the newspaper's personals and want-ads. He’d phoned Steve exactly once, feeling uncomfortable and awkward and unsure of what to say as they picked a place to meet. It felt good to hear his voice again, this time without the throbbing pain in Bucky’s mind echoing after each word Steve said.

Bucky arrived at the old diner first and placed himself in the very back booth, back to the wall and eyes on the only door. He had no strategic plan to complete this mission. He didn’t even know what to say other than the years had done Steve well. What did you say to the fella who helped define you in the eyes of public, history, and your own old self? 

_I remember wanting to punch you over and over again until you just stopped talking so the noise in my head would cease._

_I remember the feeling of absence where the memories of us should’ve been._

_I remember lying on a table, in a foxhole, on my rack in training wishing I could just laugh with you one more time. One last lean in to your shoulder, remember the feel of soft hair on my cheek and what happiness tasted like on your tongue._

_I remember the feel of your lips on mine; the way your breath would stutter scaring the shit out of us both._

Or how about the honest, harshest truth?

_There are days I wish I could just be wiped again. There are days I don’t want to remember at all._

The chain of bells on the glass door tinkled as Steve pushed his way inside, all ducked head and dropped shoulders. He nodded to the waitress at the counter and pointed to Bucky in the back. He talked to her, voice too low even for Bucky to hear over the music. He held up two fingers and passed some money over, taking the change and putting it in the tip jar. 

“I got us some coffee and two slices of apple pie,” Steve said as he slid-in across from Bucky. His knees bumped the table and a blush stained his cheeks.

Bucky just nodded. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Steve said.

Bucky still couldn’t believe how strong and healthy Steve looked, even after all the time he watched him over the past few months. He looked so very alive; shining eyes and rosy cheeks. Hopeful too. The embodiment of great and good even with his bruised knuckles resting on the table top of some rundown diner.

“Ran into an alleyway?” Bucky asked.

“An overzealous Hydra fan,” Steve said.

Steve grinned as the waitress dropped off their orders and waited until she left before he said anything else.

“You doin' okay, Bucky?”

Bucky shrugged and toyed with the paper napkin holder. He thought about the worlds still melding in his head. Things were still mostly hazy three days out of seven, but he remembered fighting with Steve, and for him, and beside him, even when he had skinny wrists and a stick-thin frame. He remembered little Stevie who had to become Steve far too quickly, trying to bear the weight of the world alone on tiny little shoulders that refused to quit. 

“Look at you, tall as Goliath and still fighting like David,” he said.

Steve looked up from his piece of pie. “Tall or not, it doesn’t feel the same without a Jonathan.”

“ _The soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul._ ,” Bucky quoted. “I’m still out here in the Wilderness, Steve. It’s going to take some time until I can come back.”

Steve clenched his jaw. Bucky knew that look, but he wasn’t used to the restraint. Used to be you couldn’t get Steven Grant Rogers to keep quiet when he wanted to yell down the world.

“Just don’t go near any Mount Gilboa’s, okay?”

Bucky nodded. “I think I’ve had enough falling for the past three lifetimes.”

Bucky took a sip of his coffee. Black. Perfect. He carefully set the cup down on the saucer and picked up his fork with his metal wrist. He wasn’t surprised when Steve froze.

“Hell of a look I got going on, right?” he joked.

Steve’s smile was a weak imitation of amused. 

“It can’t go back to the way it was, you know that,” he said.

“I do,” Steve said.

“I don’t just have to deal with the time I’ve lost. I don’t just have to deal with what I’ve done and what I’m still trying to remember. I have to deal with what was done to me.”

“I know, Buck.”

“Fuck, Steve, I don’t even know if I’m your _Bucky_ anymore. It fits better than James, but I still feel like I’m stumbling around in another man’s shoes. And there you are.”

“And I ain’t exactly the shining example of what you remember,” Steve said. “You’ve only met this body of mine in war time.” He ripped open a packet of sugar and stirred it into his coffee. “Got a long way to go, Buck, but no matter what, no matter where the road goes or how this all ends, you’ll always be _my_ Bucky.” He pointed to Bucky’s arm. “Even with your new shiny addition.”

“Yeah? How does Mr. Wilson feel about that?”

Steve blanched for only a moment before his smile went soft and warm. “He’s the best. He’ll welcome you into our home if I ask.”

“He’s a good man,” Bucky said. “I’ve done some research and he’s—you should hold onto him with both hands.”

“Don’t plan on letting go anytime soon,” Steve said. “To either of you, if you decide you want it like that.”

“And do you?”

Steve shrugged. “You get to a point where you can even think of it, then we’ll talk.”

Bucky nodded. “As long as you understand that by the end of this, I can’t and won’t be just _him_.”

“I want you to be _you_ ,” Steve said. He rounded his shoulders again, as if trying to be as small a man as he once was. “Even if you can’t talk to me, there’s Sam. You said you looked into him, so you know he’s kind of like us. He’s been through a war. He lost his partner. He knows what it feels like to be helpless. He knows what it’s like to want to fight the impossible and inevitable. He’s been helping vets since he got back. He’s willing to listen, and I swear he won’t judge.”

There was little Stevie. Always looking out for those he’d hitched his wagon to, even when he should know better. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, but I’ve talked to some people already.”

“Oh.”

Bucky carefully studied Steve’s face, saw that warm smile widen, and the light go brighter in his eyes. “You sound surprised.”

“No, I’m—I’m proud.”

Bucky smirked. “Don’t hold a ticker-tape parade for me yet, punk. I’m never gonna be the domesticated type.”

“You never were.” He dropped Bucky’s gaze for a second then looked back up. “Jerk,” he added.

It felt good, this little world here, but the changing line of the shadows on the diner floor let Bucky know more than anything how it couldn’t last.

“I can’t yet, Steve.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Steve straightened up then, sat at attention, and looked Bucky square in the eye. “I tried to drink myself to death after you died, but Peggy—then I banked a plane into a block of ice.”

“Never did know how to break.”

“Never will,” Steve said. “When I came back, I spent a lot of time on my own, Bucky. Hell, it wasn’t until this past year that I really sought anyone out for companionship. I get that, you know, need to find yourself. I can’t imagine how hard it must be when you’re trying to figure out past, present, and future all at once, but I get the finding who you are right _now_ in this moment part. You need time. You need to find your own way. I respect that, and I’m so goddamned proud you’ve gotten this far on your own, and that you’re keeping on that way. But if you ever want or need someone else.” 

He pulled out a business card with a handwritten message on the back.

“That’s Sam’s work number. I wrote our address and phone number on the back. No pressure, Buck. No requirements. Just if you need someone to listen, or a place to lay your head, or just want to catch a hot homemade meal, you call us.”

**************

After the diner, Bucky couldn’t stop thinking of Steve’s bruised knuckles. He could see how desperately Steve still needed a war to fight, still defaulting to the unfamiliar role as a soldier in an unfamiliar world. Bucky had died, Steve had died, and so had all the Howling Commandos. Peggy Carter faded more each day. They had all lived and died for something; for the greater good, to take out Hydra, and yet here they were. Different century, same fight, and Steve wouldn’t be putting down the shield anytime soon, no matter how heavy the weight became. He was always a man who would crave a cause, whether it be for a kids getting picked on, or the fate of the free world. Steve, no matter how bad or angry or frustrated he could get, could never fail to be inherently good, or ever stop fighting the good fight.

Bucky couldn’t do much from where he stood. He wasn’t anywhere close to being field ready again, but he could lie through his teeth to his own mother if it meant keeping some essential things relatively safe and sound. 

There was no way Hydra, an organization that powerful with roots that deep, could’ve completely disappeared from the world. He figured they’d try to stay out of D.C.-Metro for the time being, but the city so nice they named it twice was a completely different story. 

So Bucky followed up with some connections. He blackmailed a handful of government representatives and their aides over a handful of months and got signals passed to New York. It was enough to get some of the rats out of the sewer, and give Steve plenty of targets. 

He watched from a rooftop as Steve and Romanoff boarded a large airship, greeted by a man in a three-piece suit and a woman dressed in all black. He waited until they took off to start the next part of his journey. Wilson lived outside the standard Metro and bus lines, and it would take Bucky most of the day to walk to his house He didn’t want to boost a car yet, but he needed to get a haircut, shower, and shave. He needed to make a better second impression than his first. Sam Wilson was an integral part of Steve’s life now after all. 

Bucky pulled out the battered MP3 player he’d gotten from a pawn store for one of Pierce’s watches and turned it on.

He hummed along to _Born to Run_ and took his next step.


End file.
